


Be My Enemy

by Luisa_Q



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:41:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luisa_Q/pseuds/Luisa_Q
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caesar's changing opinion(s) of Naevia. Deals with aftermath of sexual violence. Written from Caesar’s perspective, reflects his version of events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be My Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> Very first ever attempt at fanfiction, any feedback gratefully received.
> 
> I do not own Spartacus, but I have quoted some lines of dialogue. Also, the title of this story is lifted from a novel by Christopher Brookmyre.

The first time he meets her, he thinks she is a woman without mercy. She is the Gaul’s pet bitch, a she-wolf straining at the leash, hungry for slaughter and Roman blood. Her hatred of the prisoners is as dry tinder, desperate for flame. And it is true that she is quick and brutal, true that she revels in killing, true that she seems complete with a sword in her hand.

But it is also true that she comes to visit him – to visit _Lysiscus_ – on guard duty, to bring him a cup of hot soup. And when he momentarily forgets himself in failing to turn at his name, she touches him gently on the shoulder. _You are as man tired beyond sense. Go, drink this and find slumber. I can stand guard._ Kind words that render his dangerous mission as somehow sordid and absent honour. It is one of many things from Sinuessa that he recalls with shame.

…

He wants to kill her, as he wants to kill her Gaul, as he wants to kill each and every last member of their rebel army. And - the thing he cannot voice - as he also wants to kill Tiberius, as he wants to kill his own soldiers, as he wants to kill anyone and everyone in vain effort to sate his rage and pain. What he has felt as a fresh and brutal humiliation, he longs to turn back on the world as wrath, to see it multiplied, to feel vengeance.

They are weak and he is strong. They will cry and he will be silent. They must bleed and he must heal.

She interferes in his battle with the Gaul, and he is as shocked by her fucking audacity as he is her blow. Then Tiberius steps in and robs him of the kill (which is how he views it, not as life saved but as further mockery – insult on top of injury) and he is also robbed of the relief he would find, one way in or another, in combat. His frustration is a beast that lashes out at whatever happens nearest. When Crassus asks him _This is the Gaul that would seek the fall of Rome?_ he is taken aback by the vitriol of the reply _\- And his fucking woman_.

Even so, when he forces the defeated Gaul’s face towards her, it is not merely to be cruel. It transpires that even with mortal wound and life fleeing, the man’s eyes are too full of fire, and he would not have them burning into him a moment more. Not now that there is so much he wants to keep concealed.

Afterwards, there are men that would make to enjoy her body before she is sent back to Spartacus with her gruesome burden, but Crassus forbids it.

_Imperator,_ one foolhardy man protests, _she is but slave from mines and brothels. And the men grow frustrated so far from camp._

_You perhaps misheard command? I will repeat it. For my purposes, she is messenger, not whore. Enough._

Crassus’s tone brooks no further debate, and the man is quick to offer apologies.

Only then does he realise how tense he had become during the altercation. His skin is damp with sweat and his breath is shallow. He feels a rush of relief, not on her behalf but on his own.

She has said nothing, but he finds that he is sickeningly familiar with her silence – the dejected slump of her shoulders, the way her fingers move to old scars, just as his own fingers traced his own bruised face.

He assures himself that he has never really forced a woman. He has been rude perhaps, has presumed liberties, has bedded slaves. He tells himself that that was different. That he always left coin. That he has never taken satisfaction in _inflicting_ pain. That many women in his arms have responded with pleasure. Still, he does not like the direction of his thoughts, and has no desire to follow the verdict where these recollections might lead. It was _different_.

_Perhaps_ , sneers the voice at the back of his mind, _but perhaps not._

He becomes aware that Tiberius is smirking at him, as if privy to most secret thoughts. Without time to properly excuse himself, he steps quickly away, finds a quiet corner behind a tent, and vomits until there is nothing left but acid that burns his throat.

…

He sees that Tiberius kneels before her blade, and he finds himself divided into two. A soldier who would preserve his own life and see her come to reason, and a man who aches for the blade to fall. He takes in every detail – her grip on the sword, the line of her arms, the balance of her feet. For the first time, he truly appreciates that she is a warrior in her own right.

He cannot imagine that she will lower her sword before it is slick with the life blood of their enemy, and as the soldier readies himself for imminent danger, the man is ever more eager, urging her on. It takes him several seconds to understand that her cry of rage signalled resignation, and that her blade is buried in the ground rather than in Tiberius’s neck.

He had once thought her a woman without mercy. Now, he sees that was mistaken, although he understands that her compassion is not for Tiberius, but for the five hundred battered souls offered as exchange. Despite the stakes he has been forced to play for, he almost wishes that his first impression had held true.

Later, when events have taken their strange and brutal turn, he prepares the horses to travel back to camp. He notices that she comes with the Roman woman to linger beside Kore, and that they look at each other with sympathy and concern. He finds himself angered by this, their bond that he cannot afford to share, and he would make an abrupt departure. Still, in the end he waits almost patiently for the women to complete a last embrace, and he surprises both Kore and himself with his gentle manner during the journey home.

…

When he finds her on the final battlefield, he is brimming with energy and blood. This is his element. She is strong for her stature and skilled with the sword, but there is something different about her since the death of her Gaul – the rage that powered her has gone cold. She lands a cut to his arm, but it cannot stop him from pressing his advantage. His blade flashes, slicing through tendons and flesh. She falls to her knees.

He has his orders, and it would be simple to follow them. _No wounded enemy is to be blessed with merciful passing._ So, a blunt smack to the head and let the bitch wake up on a cross. Despite the neck wound, she could still be tough enough to linger there for a day or two – part of Crassus’s warning to any more slaves foolish enough to challenge the might of the Republic.

Yet he is plagued by a sudden rush of unbidden and unwanted memories. The taste of soup on a cold morning. Smirking cruelty on the face of a boy become monstrous. Fire in the eyes of a dying man. His own body invaded. His false name on her lips. The battered body of another woman, absent hope.   _Free me_.

He will not give voice to these fragments, even supposing he knew the words to express their meaning. In the heat of battle, he felt simple and glorious and whole, but now she has shaken him, reminding him of things he would forget.  The hatred in his words to her is real. _This does not belong to you, slave_. He takes the sword from her hands. His palms are sweating, but the blade is sharp and his aim is true.

She dies on the battlefield. When his own time comes, he thinks that he would want to do the same: It is not the death of a victim.


End file.
